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grumpy thumb Sep 2018
She sleeps
I'm outside under the eaves sheltering little from the rain
smoking late into the a.m. wide awake,
coffee for company and her scent
clinging to my skin.
There's isolated bouts of traffic  
late night revellers
returning
shadows
there to witness between
lamplight neons,
but I'm cocooned away
restless in the washes of rain
thinking of one in slumber within
the walls on which I lean
Patrick Mar 2018
I am a ghost.
For I exist but do not live.
We take these bodies as if some host,
That is not us; Not even close.

I continue moving through the waves of contempt, battering against my soul like waves against some ancient ship.

This old vessel is coming close to a breach; What it needs is to find some beach. The rough waters of life are tearing it apart, turning brilliant blue to as black as my heart.

Poisoning every drop that washes against the body of a man who cannot ever win. If he does nothing he will surely drown, but any effort will also bring those around down.

So this ghost haunts the vessel, and at least for a time, he watches the world slowly fade to black; as he exists in a life upon which he turned his back.
Bison May 2016
In false light reflected we stare deeply into eyes the same.
Searching for Truth and finding ourselves shimmering cold over the still lake alone unflinching in the weight of eternity and her majestic indifference; blink.
A madness of heaven reaching through the water below to stir the silent sleeper of your soul, come forth from your depths and breathe the silk air you once knew.
All is glistening in the not so distant morning where the sun roars ancient and abysmal.
Where once Truth sighed heavy into shadow she will once more open like the lily seeking her sky born love.
Despair fades from eyes now clear blue like the sky and the rain washes away anger like dust from your kissed skin.
We blossom into light petals of ultra green and hyper white and dance as the joyous breeze allows.
Soon the darkness must fall again and we shall curl away to forgive the fallacious star that drowns out so many more.
False light will search us for the desperate Truth we hide.
A waking dream that danced on the edge of my eyes into the bright warmth of the sun.
King Panda Jul 2017
I’ve forgotten
to be anything but
space—so enraptured
with the black that
the forest was
less than a goose pimple
on earth’s flesh.

I have ignored the
eighth notes
hanging from the pines.

I have forgotten
the snowbirds and whipped
winds.

I have numbed the needles
pocking skin through
my jeans.

I have forgotten green.

I have forgotten green.

I have forgotten green.

now
the light of frozen
flies dims
in your mouth.

now
love washes out
in seasons.

now I eat
sugar-frosted buckthorn.

And I see you
ready to touch
through one
hundred leaves
and foliage.
King Panda Aug 2017
the morning sky
performs a hot dance of rain.
ever-growing lime washes away,
white and sour mistaken
by some noses as
aromatics.
a season
of ever-ending frost
absent from windows
and misty
misty
journey
through the rain
without an umbrella.

rain jilts
its luscious sun-lover
behind clouds.
it beheads drops into
the thin morning air
only to be crushed
by the sidewalk.

this excites the worms
who unearth themselves
like fishing-bait zombies.
the worms are then eaten
by the birds who brave
the rain and the slick
sidewalk, once baptized,
now eats their ****.

I step in a puddle
with my rain boots.
there are holes in their
heels, and I feel
my skin start to crinkle.
I think of you
for the first time in sky water
unsubmerged
docked
landed
and lean in
to the liquid veil.
Matt Jursin Jan 2010
Lets stop n slam on somethin' shameful like war and anguish...
'Cause im pretty sure that tremendous termoil and suffering and starvation is the same in all languages...
But something that most of us will never know...
'Cause in this country you tend to grow a fat *** as you grow old.
Give this countries cold dark history a warm embrace, look it in the face!
All this killing, death, distruction, and disease...more war than peace!
Something most of us will never see, much less feel...Because ignoring it is so much easier.
We'd rather be pleasing ourselves than siezing the keys to this country!

Jump in.
Take a sunday drive for freedom.
Sunday football keeps you occupied...
Kicked back in the recliner, while others freeze in the name of the flag.
And your constitution.
And the human condition.
Patriotism is not pretty to the petty.
To...those getting rich, hand over fist...
On your...vacant homes, vacant jobs, and vacant votes.
While they vacate our education with more lousy legislation.

We get lazier and sleezier and sloppier.
We pass judgement on our fellow man...
While we let politicians pass bills that destroy this great land.
Hand over fist, hand over hand...one hand washes the other politicians ****.
These dinosaurs with their special interest agendas make me sick.

Stand up strait.
Look at me when I talk to you.

Dont turn a blind eye to all the bodies that once hung from loops...
Remember where we came from.
Re-write history like the bible.
Re-write war and peace.

We call soldiers "property of uncle sam".
Brainwashed to believe in 'the man' and his plans.
Slavery doesn't segregate anymore.
We're all in on this together.
This time.
We stand in unison.
All in on this together.
Revolution is freedom.
"I love this country...but f this government!"
Keiji Apr 2014
Foggy, lighting and bellowing screams


my fist shoot through glass shoving through flesh scraping against tendon tainting the walls a new ruby coating, when it drys like granet
red on white statin
precious porcelain on ebony asphalt
the sound
crystal symbols being slapped together
or maybe cherubs screaming
the air coats my tongue my mouth my lo=unngs like cooper, perturbation and rapture
this storm

I get lost in it , until the rain comes and
washes the blood and dirt from my face it stings

There is fear and helplessness
something old I wrote
SC Kelley Sep 2018
I write in the midnight corner of now and what is to come. Sifting through the ashes of the forgotten. I seek what I fail to find in a light I can scarcely see. The rain washes the sins from my skin so that the ones inside can bleed back out. My words catch the air with gentle, intense passion. I caress the broken cheek hoping to fix it and finding only myself more broken. I know not of what is to come but I can prepare myself with the ammunition of my past. The brittle autumn wind calms me with the vibrant colors of a dying world. My mind wanders into the absent recesses of my twisted imagination. The words I write copy the voices in my torn heartstrings. I **** for the cold rain fingers that embezzle my mind. My soul is painted with the bright blackness of a blackhole's laughter. There is a butterfly caged in my stomach and I'm too afraid to let it free.
- - -
When will I know, I've found rapture?

~S.C. Kelley
For the broken and lost like me
Caroline Feb 2
The darkness filtered in across the Wind River Range,
Drifting through the ancient spaces of Arapaho plains,
And I, still a child of sixteen,
Huddled in a sleeping bag,
Staring up at a vast black sky,
Patterned with the scattered dancing
Of a million stars.
And the wind, it felt like freedom
And the mountains they were beating
With some kind of barely audible drum.
But I could feel it in my bones,
Like the faintest whisper:
“This is home.”

And so I let the darkness
Fall all around me.
And later, in the depths of an Arapaho ceremony,
I felt my skin cascade
Away
My ribs break
And suddenly, from my ***** heart,
I just knew how to pray.

That opening, it never closed,
So that, even now,
The dust of sacred things
Clings tightly to my soul.
And in the blindness of the crowds
I desperately chase it,
Through the veils of common day
I find new ways to trace it.

That light.

It is there, you know. Can you see it?

When just born, we can.
I see it in my children’s eyes,
The lingering of a love
Stronger than all the love of man,
So devoid of fear, unfaltering, pure,
So beautiful that when I hold them
My heart breaks apart in tears.

And I don’t want to lose it.

That light.

All my life, I’ve sought the broken, held the strays,
Caressed the wounded spaces,
Tried so hard to mend the pieces,
Trailing blood along the way.
And the blood it bleeds from a place of honesty;
Yet, selfishly, washes away the layers of protection
People create
Exposing them to me
Feeding my soul the light that I so desperately seek.

And now, you.
You, burning with the same light that I’ve always known,
And I, like a child again, facing the Arapaho moon,
I can feel these sacred things move
Between us
Like remembrances of some other home.
From William Wordsworth's "Intimations on Immortality:"
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Troy Jan 2018
I'm alone in a world I don't understand.
As
Politicians line their pockets with the graves of our young women and men.
When will it all
end
My brother a  
Marine lies in a grave
As the rain washes it away
Just a number
Another body
For the politicians to line their pockets with.

A simple fact.

not one remembers
His name.
Hailey Oct 2018
Right when you
Think you have everything
Right when you
Think you're happy
It all ends
Someone ruins it
You ruin it
Life ruins it
Because it always ends
Today that Bliss
Ended
That one day of Bliss
Then its gone
A simple text
A simple statement of
"I don't think we can ever be friends again"
As the sadness washes over you
You realize that text
Can **** a soul
Can **** a mind
Can **** a heart
And can **** a friendship
A friendship of four years
That you will always remember
With a person you trusted
And to realize
You will never celebrate a birthday
With them
Never have that hours of laughs
With them
Never walk the hallways talking
With them
Again
You hope the best
For them
You want them to thrive
You want them to have a great future
but sadly
You will no longer
Be a part of that
Alice Lovey Jul 2018
Step out of the room and into the rain.
The sky is no longer gray,
But the cool drizzle washes me clean.
My skin is peeled away, like a snake;
Someone new,
Yet
Someone who is me, the one who's always been.
I had abandoned her.

Addiction
To what was never real.
Addiction.

I can see I lied to her, myself,
I can admit to my own illusions I was deluded to believe:

    I
       Do not need you.
                 I
                    Cannot save you.

The truth does not make me heartless.
Wash me clean and away the darkness.
I am compassion.
I am nurture.
I can be your friend,
Care from a distance while I mend,

Because I do not need you.
               We are not meant to be.

Now you'll have to save yourself.
Now I must love me.
Ella Mclaughlin Dec 2018
Sometimes
I feel numb
I don't know why
It just washes over me
One minute I'm laughing
The next I'm staring blankly at the wall

I've convinced my myself that I do this on purpose, chanting in my head every Night
I want to be depressed and numb
That I want to cry myself to sleep everynight
After i've purposley forced myself to create a river of blood flowing down my Arm

I do think I do this on purpose

When you've been sad for as long as I have
Wouldn't you?
Elizabeth Zenk Nov 2018
Romantic fuzz.
In the aching void that washes through my brain.
Incomprehensible feelings,
that mess with my mind.
***** with my relationships.
And drown out the clarity.
If only I could pull it all together,
and make out what the static buzzing is trying to tell me.
the gritty hum of my frantic mind
tells me what to say
sara Jun 2018
She washes her hands in egg whites,
picking out stray shell pieces.
Sitting as still as the morning- quiet,
while the kettle sets itself a-steaming.
She hears that same Chinese flute
drifting down the hallway,
slipping universal truths
under each hotel room doorway.
She looks to the rain in the hills
like sorrowful sailor's wife;
a day could be time for a dream fulfiled
or the time that the rivers run dry.
I honestly have no idea why this took such a turn, I think I must be hungry
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
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